An Old Man Who Looks Too Young
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: England decides on a whim to visit Hogwarts when Harry enters his third year. All is well and good, that is, until he actually enters Hogwarts. Things turn downhill for England and Hermione is catching on to what England actually is. He isn't just a wise, immortal wizard...
1. A Chuckle That Rumbles the Ground

_I do not own Harry Potter, as the series belongs to the lovely J. K. Rowling, nor do I own Hetalia (Mr. Himuruya). I do not claim ownership of either. This is purely for enjoyment and not for profit. _

The brilliant moon shone down on the streets of London. Harry Potter was in his aunt's and uncle's home, and being bitten by Aunt Marge's ways of making him better. It was this day that Marge had chosen to drink a plethora of wine and Harry to inflate her. After the incident he made a run for it and grabbed his bags. He was only about to begin his third year at Hogwarts and already he feared expulsion. As you most likely know, he would not be expelled or even suspended. He hopped on board the bus that so wildly flew in and arrived at Diagon Alley.

England had decided to take a curt holiday and visit Diagon Alley the next morning. He was very elated to finally be able to see the wizarding world yet again, ever since the rise of the Dark Lord, he had been instructed to stay clear. Now, with Harry growing up and Sirius Black on the use, England decided to disobey both his Queen and Fudge's orders and slip away. Diagon Alley was bustling as always, and England felt right at home.

He recalled playing Quidditch not so long ago and peered at the new Fire Bolt. That is where Harry met the strange man for the first time. The first thing Harry noticed, aside from the large brows, was his eyes. Harry stared at those jade eyes, those eyes that were as deep as a well through the earth, they had seen too much. Harry's own wonderful eyes dulled in comparison with this man's.

"Hello, Harry," England had been anticipating the moment he would meet the Potter. When he spotted the bushy mop of charcoal-colored hair, he simply had to take a closer look. His hands behind his back in a most polite manor, he walked over. Harry was startled and slapped his bangs down to hide the scar.

"Good day, sir" Harry turned and made contact with those eyes. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if a very old professor was calculating his moves. Standing straighter and putting on a smile he turned to talk—as it is most impolite to talk to someone when your back is turned to them.

"Good day indeed," England grinned, "What a lovely piece of work that is," he nodded to the firebolt. Harry gave it a long and admiring look, wanting to have it so badly that his heart quivered. If you've ever wanted something so bad, yet you couldn't have it, then you would know this feeling.

"Yes, it is very lovely," England gave a chuckle. It was a strange chuckle; it was quiet yet shook the very earth. Not a rumble or an earthquake, but a swaying chuckle that brought a smile to everyone nearby. Harry was certain now that this man had magical properties beyond even Dumbledore's comprehension. Oh, no, he dismissed the thought violently. Dumbledore was most defiantly far older than this man. Or perhaps he was immortal!

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when he took note that the man was speaking again.

"You're in your third year at Hogwarts, I imagine?" England asked, still a curious smile playing on his lips.

"Yes, sir,"

"Are you excited?"

"Most excited indeed,"

"Good, good," England nodded and looked away. He grew very distant, his eyes remembering something that looked neither good nor bad, but solemn in his memory. After what seemed like a decade, but really was only several moments, he turned back and gave another chuckle. "I must be going, now. But you will see me around, mark my words,"

Harry just barely managed to ask, "will you be teaching at Hogwarts?"

England paused. "No, no, I don't teach anymore. My purpose will be clear very soon," with a quick good-bye he left. Harry was left with many questions.

The next day, when he caught up with Ron and Hermione, he spilled the whole meeting with that strange man, whom he didn't even ask for a name. "How'd he know your name?" Ron asked.

Hermione shook her head, "He's Harry, of course. I'm sure a wizard like that knows Harry. By the looks of it, it seems he might very well know Dumbledore,"

Harry nodding, recalling his thoughts from earlier, and wondering if that really was true. "He said we'll see him around Hogwarts, but I'm not even sure why, he won't be teaching or anything… There he is!" Harry added in a hushed, but excited tone. He pointed to England, who was conversing with Mr. Weasley. The trio exchanged a look. Harry crept up closer and saw that Mrs. Weasley was there as well. He hid behind the building and listened intently.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Kirkland, we have arranged for cars," Mr. Weasley said, nodding. This Mr. Kirkland nodded, and his eyes flickered over to Harry's hiding spot. Harry's heart beat faster, for fear that he was seen, and hid deeper, just enough so he could still hear them talk.

"Do tell me what you'll be doing at Hogwarts, sir," Mrs. Weasley asked, just as curious as Harry felt.

"First off, I would love to see some old friends. It's been ages since I've seen Nearly Headless Nick, but I assume he's less alive than when I had seen him… I'm also set to patrol, but it's mostly for my own personal benefits," Kirkland replied, with a sigh. His eyes went over to Harry once again.

Hermione grabbed his shirt and pulled Harry away. When they were well from earshot (or they thought) from England, Hermione asked what Harry had heard. Harry told them getting a small nod from Hermione and a raised eyebrow from Ron.

* * *

_Just a teensy experiment. Should I continue? _


	2. England Remains in the Shadows

_Thank you all for such reviews! My email simply burst. And as promised, I will continue! Hope you enjoy! And thank you for that critic, very kind of you. I will take it into account. You see, I was rushing as I did the previous part and I hadn't the time to put much effort. I hope these upcoming chapters will be more to your liking. Enjoy! Do review please! _

Harry watched out the window as the car drove to the train station. Scenery flitted by along with various cars. The impossible driving scared Harry at first, but he soon came to enjoy it. He sat by Ron and Hermione, who were talking about their recent trips to France and Egypt. "Why, it was simply raining the whole time! But I sense magic hidden in the Louvre particularly," Hermione had sad promptly.

Ron nodded and added in all the curses his family endured walking into the Pyramids in Egypt. Having gone nowhere special over holiday, Harry didn't find it well to join in. He was relieved to have made it to the station, in record time too. Mr. Weasley spoke to the wizard driving and thanked him. They headed to the platform.

England, meanwhile, was also in the train station. He felt somewhat lost, unsure of how to get to platform 9 ¾. In the midst of bustling muggles, England looked anywhere for a familiar face. He spotted a tired, worn out man headed towards a pillar. He ran over, recognizing the man instantly as Remus Lupin, and smiled. Remus gave England a look that one might give to a ghost or some other paranormal creature. "Arthur Kirkland?" he cried out, in a mixture of delight and fear, "you haven't aged a day, and that's not just a compliment…" he looked to the right, his worn eyes looking into the past of when he had first met with Arthur.

Arthur replied with a smile, a smile that was tired of being used yet continued on. "You'll understand in time. Are you heading to Hogwarts, old pal?" he patted the man on the back gruffly. Remus nodded.

"Yes, indeed. I will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year," he smiled and looked rather young next to England. England's own shoulders were slumped and he looked ready for a nap. "Say, you seem to have something dreadfully heavy on your mind," Remus stated, looking into those eyes that enchanted Harry not too long ago.

England looked far off again, as he did before. He looked down, his smile falling and for the smallest fraction of a second, he looked his true age. It was short lived, though, and England soon came back with a nod and a smile. They merged through the pillar and entered the train without speaking another word. Settling into a comfortable looking compartment, Lupin closed his tired eyes and fell asleep. England felt for the poor fellow. He knew how heavy his burden was and prayed that he will not have to carry it alone for much longer. He seated himself more comfortably in the seat and pulled out a book. All was quiet and dim for several minutes, until the doors to the compartment slid open and Harry, Hermione, and Ron entered. The paused when they noticed England and Lupin. Hermione turned to leave but England called out, "oh dearest me! Don't leave, do sit down, I won't be a bother… Neither will he."England joked and nodded at Lupin who was fast asleep and snoring very softly and gently, the sound of leaves falling, England thought.

The three thanked him and sat down. England watched them for several minutes before opening the book again. He read at peace for a good few minutes, until an uneasy feeling came over him. It's the kind of jolt in the stomach one gets from getting a sudden realization. The Honeydukes Express rolled in at the moment and all too eagerly England jumped up and bought some chocolates, stuffing them inside his pocket he sat down. His eyes, once joyful and masking a deep pain were now afraid. The fear caused great tears to form at the sides, and those great tears shimmered. They were not natural human tears, as those are rather salty and watery, but these tears were like gems. England wiped them away before anyone took notice. He tried to remember the last time he cried out of fear, but the memory scared him and he tried to forget about it. Hermione must have noticed the sudden changes in expression that danced upon the Brit's face for she nudged Harry. "What do you think he's thinking?"Hermione asked.

"I bet he's wondering how to make sweaters out of those eyebrows," Ron joked and he and Harry had to stifled laughter. Hermione huffed, scolding them for how rude that statement was, though she did giggle. At any rate, England seemed at ease again, not crying or making face anymore. He pulled his book back out and continued to read. He found it quite difficult to read. Harry also found himself shiver.

He looked at England, worrying gravely as to why the train was getting so cold and his nerves so on end. The train seemed to grow darker and dimmer. Quietness rung as loud as screams. The doors slid open and both Harry and England felt their faces grow hot and their bodies tense. The dark shadow that entered the room drowned both into darkness. The last thing Harry saw was the strange, shabby teacher stand up and cry out some sort of spell. He did not see England fall unconscious beside him, nor did he see Hermione and Ron crowed around him.

He heard distant screams, calling him and pleading something, the words were undistinguishable but sounded to be the voice of a woman. England was having a more difficult time. He heard screams of young woman, he heard the word "madness" in the darkness, and he heard screams. Screams more terrible than even Harry could imagine, screams that would chill every little bone in someone who was not a nation, and those screams hurt England. England was about to go mad, songs played in his head, but he was awoken by Remus shaking his shoulder. He looked up groggily, his face was pale as salt and he could barely manage any words. Harry, who was holding the chocolate in his hands weakly, studied England. He concluded that what he felt was a dozen times less worse than what England had endured. England pulled out a piece of chocolate from his pocket and ate it. As soon as the creamy goodness was in his mouth, color returned and his eyes looked less troubled.

Harry looked at Hermione and Ron, expecting to find them on the floor as well. He felt embarrassed, but less so than if England hadn't fallen with him. "Didn't you all pass out too?" he asked, biting the chocolate and feeling instantly better. The warm feeling spread from his toes to his nose. Hermione shook her head and so did Ron. He felt wary, suddenly, and looked over at England. England didn't look so far away anymore. "Why did you fall?" Harry asked, trying to remain polite.

England took a moment to respond. "I've seen horrible things, Harry, things you will never see," and he left it at that. He sat up and looked at hi swatch, which he took off and tucked into his bag. The bag was large and brown. Inside, in the momentary glimpse Hermione had caught, were two books, a thin wand, and some other objects Hermione couldn't see very well. He slapped the bag shut and seated himself back. He turned to Remus and spoke quietly, "I'm sorry, lad,"

Remus shook his head and tried to look into England's eyes, but failed and turned away. "I'm sorry, but you will be seeing many more dementors around the campus lately, you know, with Sirius…" Remus didn't finish his sentence, as he fell silent and croaked the name. He spoke with a betrayed tone, not a sort of tone you make when a friend gives you a toy you didn't want when you clearly asked for something else, but a tone that held such pain and woe that even Harry cringed to hear. He had spoken with Mr. Weasley early and wondered what relation this new teacher would have with the man who was "after" Harry. Feeling suddenly down, he tried to think of something more pleasant. Like, when he blew up his aunt or when he got a bigger room, or even that dashing firebolt. He day dreamed of riding that charming broom until they reached Hogwarts.

Hargid's voice boomed through, calling the first years. He caught sight of Harry and others and waved greatly before turning his attention back to the scared eleven year olds. England and Lupin strayed from the three children, who were at last left for themselves. They talked about the whole incident from earlier. "Why do you think he fell too? He's a grown man, isn't he?" Ron asked, coming off more snarky than he meant to. Hermione shrugged.

"I think he's a kind man," she said, "he must be very knowledgeable. Did you see how many books he had? And a watch, too, he must be familiar with the muggle world." At that moment Professor McGonagall called Hermione and Harry over.

At the feast, Dumbledore called everyone's attention by simply standing up. England looked at him with a certain admiration one usually reserves for their children or grandchildren. Dumbledore raised his hands and smiled. Looking over his spectacles, he began speaking. "Hello, and welcome back," he then went on to explain the dementors, "we also would like to welcome two new members of the staff. Professor Remus Lupin will be teaching Defense Against The Dark Arts this year," Remus stood up and smiled weakly (and Snape regarded him resentfully), "and also, let me welcome back an old friend of Hogwarts and of my own, Arthur Kirkland. He will be doing a similar job as the dementors, but you may speak with him. Do show respect to him, as he is your elder," after some last words he sat down and instructed them all to eat.

What really peeked Ron's interest was Snape's reaction to Mr. Kirkland. He did not give the same foul look, but a rather kinder one. He looked at Arthur as one would an elder, most everyone at the table did. They smiled at Arthur (except for Snape, who remained to his somewhat kind, somewhat suspicious face). Dumbledore spoke with Arthur directly, and Ron nudged Hermione to take a look. Most students did, even Draco Malfoy who had been jeering at both the new men. Even the bitter child found it difficult to insult Arthur. Arthur brought a rich feeling to the hall. A different feeling than the magical and wise one Dumbledore tugged with him. It was a warm feeling, a feeling of honor to be around the man. Dumbledore spoke with Arthur in a playful tone, asking him how he was doing. It was easy to speak, as he was on the right hand side of Dumbledore himself. Arthur was biting into his bread and nodding. They spoke and laughed together and the other teachers found themselves laughing as well. Although the students couldn't quite make out what they were saying, the found themselves smiling. The mere sound of laughing from Arthur and Dumbledore was powerful enough for them to do so.

They found themselves tired and stuffed to the rim. Heading up to the towers, they fell quickly asleep without much sway. It is very comforting to sleep on a full belly and high spirits.

When the students heading up, England made his way to his own room, which was a small and comfortable looking square room with a four-poster bed. He plucked his shoes right off and got into a night-gown, but though he was tired, he could not fall asleep. He lay staring at the ceiling for moments on end. He snuggle deeper into the comfortable bed. The effort was useless and he sighed. Too much was on his mind. He wondered what France was doing. France never showed any signs of acknowledging the magical community, England wondered if he knew it at all. Of course, it was preposterous for France to not know. There were many witches and wizards living there, but the other nations had grown so dull in the past few months. Dull as stone, they grew too logical. Though this helped when they played chess, it didn't help when they brought up the subject of the magical world. England often pulled it into the conversations they had, but some flatly refused to continue. Others laughed and said there was no such thing. England wondered if they had forgotten about the wizards. This both terrified and saddened Arthur, as he was much in love with magic. Heaving another great sigh he fell asleep.

Harry and his friends heading to Divinations class, lead by the comical painting. The class bothered Hermione, who felt she had too much to do as is. The death omen came and they all left with tender tempers. Classes went on, and the first few were absent of England. England was watching in the corner of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, after several moments he left. They saw him again in Hagrid's class, talking some comforting words to a Hippogriff who was sitting by him. England didn't seem to be speaking in English, but no one really noticed. Draco was a sore spot, as he always was, and upset the dear hippogriff. England was out of sight by then. The last time the trio saw them that day was during potions. He was mixing something that fumed wispy clouds of smoke in the corner. His strange appearances troubled Hermione. She chose a seat near the back, where she could hear England. England was humming some old song. She mixed her potions and watched Neville painfully as he messed up. Snape was especially bitter that day, scolding and ignoring all of Hermione's answers when he asked questions. He left them to work and stalked around like the dark figure he was. He ended near England and, keeping his mouth in a scornful position, asked if the man needed help.

"I have been cooking potions for longer than you have, though I do feel out of date… Care to explain what this is…?" England pointed to an ingredient. Ron looked at Hermione with wide eyes. He nudged Harry as well.

"Did you see that? He's talking kindly to him!" Ron said in an alarmed whisper. Hermione nodded, not sure whether to trust England or not. Her gut said yes, her mind said perhaps, and her logic said no. She stirred the potion she worked on angrily. Snape walked over and commented about her angry which set her off even more.

The next few days went by as so, England appearing in odd classes doing odd jobs and at time simply resting. He spoke to teachers during passing periods, asking about spells and news. He didn't pay any attention to the students until a particular comment came up. "'Mione, you went to France, didn't you?"

England looked over, like a dog who heard his name and a whistle. He edged closer, hope flashing in his eyes. Hermione took notice and looked at him, "yes, sir?"

"Dear lass, did you see a tall fellow, long blonde hair and a small scruff of a beard when you were there?" he asked sweetly, only too sweetly.

"Why no I didn't! How peculiar, who is he? A friend?"Hermione asked, though she didn't mean to sound impolite.

"Nothing, I was just curious," with that England left and disappeared for another few days. He turned up at long last during a Quidditch practice. Oliver Wood was announcing that they were up against Hufflepuff rather than Slytherin, as Draco was still "hurt" from the wound the hippogriff placed upon him. Harry fumed with anger. England sat, watching them from the stands and trying not to disturb.

The Hogsmead trip couldn't have been worse for Harry, or better, seeing as he didn't go at all. He stayed behind and went into Lupin's classroom. Snape walked in, talking in the same dark tone he used with everyone besides Arthur and Dumbledore. He asked what Harry was doing in the room. "I was just showing him the next specimen," Remus said weakly, averting Snape's gaze. Snape spitefully sneered and placed the steaming goblet on the desk.

"I suggest you take it right away," he said and turned away, hunched and dark as a shadow, he slipped through the hallways. When he left, England walked in. He looked at Lupin with a warm look and smiled.

"Sugar won't fix how it tastes," he said, watching as Lupin drink the liquid. He frowned and nodded. Harry continued to watch, still in shock that Lupin actually drank what Snape had given him. He made a mental note to tell Hermione and Ron.

England turned to Harry. "Hello Harry, did Uncle Vernon not sign that form as he had promised?"

Harry looked at England, wondering how he knew his Uncle's name and how he knew about that promise. "Um, yes, he didn't sign it," he replied quietly.

England nodded, "I'm dearly sorry for that. Hogsmead is a nice place. Though I get the feeling you will be going soon," he looked at Lupin, who was just as confused as Harry. "well I best be off," he turned and left.

"What a strange man he is…" Harry said when England was out of sight,

"Oh it gets better…" Lupin said whimsically.


	3. Loneliness

**I have made a terrible mistake!** _I'm awfully sorry about the whole confusion this caused you… No! No one knows who England is, I'm sorry for the confusion! The teachers, who have a relation to Arthur, will be explained. I will call England Arthur from now on, as this is more from the student's point of view. Thank you all for the kind reviews, keep them coming!_

"You mean he drank it?!" Hermione cried in disbelief when Harry told her and Ron about the potion.

"Yes, and Mr. Kirkland let him!" Harry added, starting to distrust the man. "Isn't he suspicious," he said, looking at the ground.

Hermione nodded, pulling her book out of her bag, "we ought to investigate this," she said in peculiar tone. "I heard him say he was going to be walking through the campus tonight,"

Ron and Harry stared at her. "What?" they both said, thrown off by the sudden suggestion. It was from Hermione, the trouble hater.

"I can't help but feel I've seen him before, when I was really young and before I knew I was a witch," she said, her mouth in a thoughtful pout. "Get your cloak, Harry, or give it to me, I simply need to know what this man is doing." Ron and Harry exchanged a look. If Hermione wanted to…

"Well," Harry raised an eyebrow, "I do want to visit Hagrid, maybe he will be there," Hermione smiled. She did look a bit uncertain. She seemed to hesitate for a moment as they headed out of the portrait. For a moment she drew back, common sense trickling in.

"Maybe we shouldn't," she bit her lip.

"It was your idea. Don't you want to see Hagrid?" Ron said gruffly, having liked the dangerous Hermione. The girl didn't respond and followed through. The night was filled with sounds of a light breeze, it was a tad chilly. Hiding from Peeves passing over head, Hermione had a better chance to think about what she was doing. She scolded herself thoroughly for making such a radical choice. 'Oh, Hermione, how dare you let yourself into this? You know better than this… Why is it you want to see the man so badly? You only saw him once or twice, when he visited your mum and dad to have his teeth cleaned…' she thought, and turned to follow the boys onward. 'How dreadful! I could get caught and then I'll lose my extra classes and time-turner!'

The reached Hagrid's home, quite luckily unseen and entered. Hagrid was sobbing the way a giant would and talking. "Poor buckbeak! He did nothin' wrong! He's a gentle creature, and ye know it…" he didn't appear to be talking to the Golden Trio, but rather to someone in his kitchen. They entered quietly. Hagrid looked up and saw them. Tears welled in his eyes, big shining tears that wetted his beard. "Aye hello Harry, Hermione, Ron… I'm sorry ye've got to see me like this," he said sadly, shoulders quaking.

Hermione shook her head and walked closer, "I am sorry … But we still have the trial!" she added in a more hopeful tone. Ron nodded and sat down. Harry looked into the kitchen and found a pot of tea boiling.

"Hey, Hagrid, who were you talkin—" Harry was cut off and gave a little shriek when he heard a voice that was not Hagrid's.

"What are you doing here? You aren't allowed here at this time," Arthur's voice came, in a scolding tone. Hermione gave a little yelp and looked at Arthur who had walked in the door. He wore his tweed suit and a frown. "I thought you would know better, Hermione," he turned to the girl. The girl was looking shameful.

"I'm sorry, sir, we just wanted to see Hagrid, he's a friend of ours you see…" Ron said, trying to take the blame for himself. "I thought it would be a splendid idea to come and comfort him. He really is a gentle… Man, and I would hate to see Buckbeak be taken so suddenly." Arthur studied his face. He could tell it was not all truth. Ron could feel Arthur's eyes bore into his skin and pry out the truth. He feared the man suddenly. Arthur was not a normal wizard, Hermione concluded. _But then what is he? _

Arthur looked at Hermione and Harry in turn, finally casting his gaze upon Hagrid. Hagrid went frigid and stopped crying at once. Even the half-giant looked frightened by this small man. His presence could bring great joy, as well as great fear, the group realized. "I understand. Would you like some tea? I had been making it when something captured my attention out the window,"

Harry felt lost. He wondered why he wasn't being punished, and why tea was suddenly offered to him. "Can you tell us why you are here?" Hermione touched the nerve to ask.

England stopped what he was doing and looked at them. His eyes were sad and, was that… Yes it was, loneliness. "Some things change… " he responded and turned away, "and sometimes for the worst."

_A bit of a shorter chapter, my apologies, but I do wish to keep these as drabbles. So I can write more! _


	4. Idleness and Age

_Wow thank you so so much for all the reviews, favorites, and follows! Keep them coming! _

Harry and Hermione remained quite silent, but Ron was the one to speak up. "So, um, how are you today?" not being one to enjoy silence much, Ron tried his best to break it. "How's Hogwarts? The Sirius case is really wild, huh?"

England didn't speak the while he was pouring tea. He handed them all a steaming cup and chuckled. The sound could have been magical, as the air in the small house lightened immediately. "I've been alright, thank you Ron. Your father and mother say hello, also. I saw them just yesterday. They asked if you were doing fine, and the likes… I also took a look at your Uncle and Aunt, Harry," Harry tensed and looked at England nervously. "Don't worry! He isn't still mad at you for blowing up your aunt. He sends his regards. Don't be too hard on the poor man and Hermione, your parents—"

"Wait!" Harry interrupted, quite rudely, "what do you mean 'don't be too hard'? The bloke, excuse me, my uncle locked me in a closet for eleven years!" England shook his head.

"That was very rude, Harry, to interrupt an elder," he didn't answer his question and turned back to Hermione, "As I was saying, my dear, and your parents send you their love and advise you to not overwork yourself,"

"Can you answer my question now?" Harry said bitterly. England gave him a look and Harry added, twice as bitter, "sir?"

England sat down near Hagrid, who looked modest and almost small besides England. That was something, seeing Hagrid's size. He seemed to have shrunk at least two sizes. England sipped his tea. "Harry, your aunt and uncle are not bad people," he said, "I've known them for a very long time. Just because someone is awful to you—or seemingly so—that does not make them evil. Consider their reasons before you come to the conclusion that they are bad,"

Harry fell silent. "Oh, alright sir," he mumbled, "I'm sorry for being so rude,"

"Think nothing of it, Harry, I understand," England smiled then, "I know how you feel. My long years have allowed me to reflect on being a human… When one lives a grand few centuries one learns quite a lot,"

Silence fell again. Ron felt horribly uncomfortable and Hermione was pondering over that last part. "Good heavens and earth!" cried England, standing up suddenly, "what are you doing here?! Go! You'll be in a bloody brilliant load of trouble if you don't go now!" he shooed them and left the house as well.

The days skipped on by right up to Christmas. Hermione and Ron stayed with Harry, with their excuses as well. Harry found the firebolt, and in the utmost glee enjoyed it. That is, until Hermione handed it over to Professor McGonagall. Her cat-like eyes stared down upon Harry and Ron with the slightest hint of sympathy. "We'll check it for curses, to be safe," she had said. She refused to give it back, even after Harry's pleas and how he would lose. He had lost his other broom, you see, after a dementor attack in their game. Since then Harry had asked for Lupin's help. McGonagall shook her head and insisted to take it, and left before Harry could speak another word against it. Angered terribly by Hermione, Harry held the same grudge Ron had when Crookshanks attacked Scabbers.

Hermione chose to flee the boys and work on her homework. Her multitude of classes brought her great stress and she found herself tired even when she slept. 'Now, now, you asked for this,' she told herself, but in her mind, 'you can trouble yourself with those silly things later…'Working quietly on Muggle Studies homework, which was an essay, she didn't see England walk in.

"Muggle studies, what an interesting class," he said and sat down beside her. "Why are you sitting here all alone?" he asked when she looked at him.

"Harry's mad that I gave his firebolt—which very well could have been cursed!—to Professor McGonagall and Ron is mad at my cat," she huffed and crossed her arms. "It's really such a silly reason to be mad!" when Arthur did not speak up, she continued on, "but of course, you are quite old, as you said, so I don't think it wise to tell you about my young troubles" Hermione did not intend the smallest bit of insolence, thought it might have shown."

England cleared his throat and recited, "_'You are old, Father William,' the young man said, 'And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?'" _

Hermione raised an eyebrow and set down her quill, now listening intently.

_"'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, 'I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why I do it again and again,'" _he continued, and paused when Hermione made to comment.

"Why that is a most odd reason to stand on one's head," she did not notice how her speech was changing so suddenly. England tapped his nose and continued.

_"'You are old,' said the youth, 'As I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; yet you turned a back-summersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?'" _

Hermione frowned and listened intently, finding it a great deal more interesting than the essay.

_"'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, 'I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple?'_

_"'You are old,' said the youth, 'And your jaws are too weak. For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and beak—Pray, how did you manage to do it?'_

_"'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life,'"_

Hermione shook her head, "how obvious, a man to argue with his wife,"

_"'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever; yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—what made you so awfully clever?'_

_'I have answered three questions, that is enough' said his father, 'don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to suck stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down the stairs!'"_ Arthur finished, looking at Hermione.

Hermione remained silent and she closed her eyes to think. As one thinks most clearly when his eyes are shut. She did not speak, as it is silly to talk when thinking. "what was the point of telling me that curious tale?"

"What do you think? The moral is only what you make of it, my dear," England responded sagely

Hermione nodded, a smile of realization growing. "That makes grand sense!" she opened her eyes and clapped her hands. "There are many meanings to that story. One is not to try your luck. Or perhaps I'm wrong…" she sighed, crestfallen, "perhaps the moral was to respect your elders? What would that have to do with this! Why would you tell me a story that was nonsense?"

"To be quite honest, I was simply sharing a muggle story with you. They don't teach it in schools. Not magical nor muggle anymore. Right next to logic, logic is never taught anymore," he said crossly. Hermione had the strangest feeling. A feeling that something wasn't quite right, but not that something was wrong. Imagine going to plant some seeds in your garden, the package said tomatoes and you imagine how wonderful those tomatoes will be. After several days you find that you have a strange plant, it looks nothing like a tomato. Soon, you come to see, that the package was incorrectly labeled. Instead, you have ended up with a pleasant field of roses. Though you did not quite get tomatoes, you are still pleasantly surprised with the beautiful red roses. That is how Hermione felt, though she was unsure why. England cleared his throat again.

_"How doth the little busy Bee improve each shining hour, and gather Honey all day From every opening flower!" _ England began again, clearing his throat.

_"'How skillfully she builds her Cell! How neat she spreads the Wax! And labours hard to store it well. With the sweet food she makes. _

_"In works of Labour or of skill. I would be busy too: For Sa-an finds some mischief still. For idle hands to do. In books or work, or healthful play Let my first years be past, That I may give for every Day Some good account at last."_

He left Hermione to ponder the odd little riddle. She did not speak up again, and with her mind still racing, she headed back to apologize to Harry. It was an odd change, but Hermione was so horribly lost, that she could hardly think straight otherwise.

_Confusing? Yes, good. Things will make sense in good time, I do like a bit of confusion inside my story. I used: "You Are Old, Father William" by Lewis Carroll and "Against Idleness and Mischief" by Isaac Watts. Such peculiar little tales that will make sense in good time… So don't bother asking what they are for! Do not ask questions you know the answer to—that is most impolite. _


	5. The Green Cloak

Hermione reached the top of the stairs and looked back. Wondering what mysterious force had brought her to do this, but it was too late to go back now. Harry and Ron and spotted her. "'Mione! There you are, we've been looking for you," Ron called out, looking a bit sad.

"What..? Looking for me?" she turned and bit her lip. "Whatever brought you to do that?" she remained stubborn, though her heart flittered in some sort of happiness. "I thought you were mad at me," she added hastily.

Ron and Harry looked at one another. "We're sorry, Hermione, we knew you meant good," Harry said sadly, looking at his ground. He felt like he was apologizing to his mother for breaking a vase. It is, in fact, a very delicate business to go about and apologize to a girl whom you have just broken her heart; especially a smart girl like Hermione who is not one for bribes.

Hermione held her firm posture and considered. "Well, alright then" she said and smiled.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Ron asked, happy to have Hermione back. Though he was quite surprised and chose his words carefully. Anyone who forgave him that quickly must be a ticking bomb that could go off at the tiniest of prods.

"Well, at first I was working on an essay for Muggle Studies, and then Mr. Kirkland came up to me, quite an odd fellow he is. He recited two little poems." Hermione answered, following Harry to sit down.

"That's strange, Hermione… He seems far too old to look that young," Harry protested. "I don't really know if you should trust him,"

"He did say he was centuries old!" Ron put in, afraid Hermione would be set off again. He gave Harry a sharp look.

Hermione shrugged her small shoulders and pulled her feet up on the couch. "I do believe he stressed it a tad, or perhaps he is immortal!"her eyes shone, fantasizing all the fast knowledge she could gain from such a man, 'I should go talk to him again!' she thought and stood up.

Ron, who was dreadful at picking up such minute hints, thought it was their fault for her sudden movement. "I'm sorry, we didn't mean to upset you!" Harry said, also not knowing why she stood so quickly. As Hermione had said what she intended to do in her mind, and not allowed, (though she thought it was aloud) she shook her head. Placing her book s into her bag and running out of the portrait and into the commons she began her search.

Her search did not lead her to Arthur. The strange man seemed to have vanished all over again and she sighed in disgruntlement. "Dear, why must he disappear so suddenly," she stomped her foot and crossed her arms. Not losing all her hope, she looked in the halls.

He was gone! Hermione was wondering if he had left home for Christmas. '_Silly girl_,' she told herself. She'd been speaking to herself quite a lot these past few days—a way to cope with all her classes—'_Why would he be here in the morning and not now?' _Lost in her thoughts, which ranged from ideas that England had been eaten by Fluffy (the three-headed dog Hagrid adored) to England having gone to Hogsmead. She was wrong.

"Why don't you go home, Arthur?" a wise voice rang through the halls. Hermione gasped and hid behind a pillar. She spotted Arthur and Professor McGonagall.

"I am home," Arthur argued back and the foot-steps stopped.

"Surely it can't be…" the woman stopped, "You do plan on coming back next year, don't you?"

"Of course! I couldn't miss it," Arthur said light-heartedly, "And no, it's not him. I just don't want to return home. They've all changed,"

"Changed? Have they gotten more troublesome than when I met them? Then again, I was a little girl when I met your friends and family,"

"Do believe me when I say they remember you fondly, you were an adorable young girl," Arthur laughed and they began walking. Hermione followed them at a safe distance. "I'm afraid that next year will be my last chance to get them back into the magic world. I must be present next year, you see,"

There was a long drawn sigh from McGonagall. "You still haven't answered my question. Surely there is a reason for you to stay home. You aren't a teacher and therefore you can freely leave when you want,"

"And that is precisely the reason," the man said and there was no more mention of the topic. Hermione ran back to the Gryffindor tower.

"What do you mean he met Professor McGonagall as a little girl? Who are his friends? Are they immortal as well?" Harry asked, just as curious as Hermione was.

"That's what she said! As a very young girl too," Hermione replied, petting Crookshanks, who gave raw looks in Ron's direction. "And I would assume, seeing as they're alive as well,"

"I think he's a squib," Ron said, eyeing that cat with the most distasteful look and placing a heavy hand on his quivering pocket. "I mean, have you seen him use any magic?" Harry nodded in pact. Hermione pouted her lips until they were but a thin white line.

What the Golden Trio did not know what that Arthur's magical was in fact very powerful, but the chants and spells were always so long he hardly bothered to do anything bigger than simple spells. That was another reason he came to Hogwarts, to learn new spells. He would catch some tidbits during his stays in each class. Now, after break, he would pay more mind to each class and take notes just like the students. Almost like a muggle had to take a driving class again after a certain amount of time, he found it would be wise to refresh on magic. He could have enrolled, but he is far too powerful and old to be a regular student. Therefore he took part in odd jobs teachers needed to be done when they hadn't the time.

The Winter Break ended, and that meant Malfoy's sneering face was back. He mocked Harry's fainting problem and fueled a deeper desire to learn to defend himself.

When he entered Lupin's room, he found Arthur there performing a spell. He seemed to be doing it on Lupin, and Harry stayed back, watching just as Hermione had done not too long ago. Lupin looked frightfully pale and Arthur cleared his throat, pulling a long staff from his side. It was the oldest thing Harry had ever seen, chipped in several areas, but it was alos the strongest thing. It glowed palely and flickered red when it drew closer to Lupin.

He opened his mouth, but something else came out. It was a sort of singing, and only heard when Harry listened. When he wanted to relax, he heard a strange roaring sound. It was a roaring song that played from the earth and from the sky. Harry stepped back, to test this, and found that he heard some unintelligible words, but when he drew nearer, there was the song again. Roaring in pride, it took at least five minutes, but felt very swift to both Lupin and Harry. When it stopped, at least when Arthur closed his mouth (the song still rung in the air), Lupin thanked him graciously. Arthur looked at Harry's hiding place and he said, "Harry, come out of there. I'm sorry to have intruded on your lesson. Best of luck, lad," with that he walked away, long green cloak trailing behind him and staff tapping the floor. It was not a tap that a cane would make, but a tap of gem against gem.

Lupin didn't look as pale and invited Harry in. "Don't bother asking, Harry," Remus said, "For I do not know myself what Arthur wanted. He simply walked in, grim expression, and said for me to kneel down. I was scared pale, but he smiled and I relaxed."Harry was astonished that Lupin knew all his questions and that he didn't have the answers.

Harry had his trouble with patronouses at first, but when a flicker began, he was sent away.

"I knew he wasn't a squib!" Hermione said when she heard of the spell. "But really what a truly peculiar tale, indeed…"

"So it sounded like singing, but then as a roar? What kind of magic is that?" Ron asked, looking at Hermione for an answer.

"A very old kind of magic," she stood, "I'm going to the library to see if it's in any of the old books," she left and Ron muttered something about how that was just like Hermione, finding answers in libraries.

Harry watched her leave and suddenly disappear into the hallway. "I wonder if she realizes class will start in just a few minutes," Ron shrugged and grabbed his things and made to Potions.

Snape was in an especially sour mood that day, bullying Neville worse than ever and taking points off from Gryffindor freely. Arthur was not there. "Get out your books and turn to 345," Snape ordered acidly.

"What's his problem?" Ron muttered.

"Did I say for you to talk?" Snape hissed and stared Ron dead-on.

Ron shut his mouth and worked on the potion as instructed. Minutes ticked by lazily, as if purposely stretching time. When Hermione was stirring her potion, an elixir to enlarge, the door clicked upon and a green-robed figure stepped in. He nodded to Snape, and sat by Draco Malfoy.

Needless to say, Ron and Harry felt horribly betrayed.

"What are you working on?" he asked Draco, a flickering pang of annoyance shooting in his eyes.

"An elixir to enlarge," the blonde said proudly, "we aren't quite done yet,"

Arthur stood and stalked around the class, thanking Draco. It was quite evident that he made a move to talk with each and every student, at least for a little bit. But why he made for Draco first was unclear. It was even more unclear why he skipped Harry altogether. He spoke with Ron, asking how long the potion needed to be brewed, ignored Harry, and spoke with Hermione. Draco pointed and laughed, nudging his fellow Slytherins.

He left and Harry was quite stunned. Arthur hadn't shown him any sort of remorse before, what had he done? He wondered if it was from listening to that spell or song, whatever it was.

* * *

**_A bit longer of a chapter, and I hope it was a decent cliffhanger to leave off on! Review and tell me what you think~ And thank you to all who have reviewed already! I have tried to play with your suggestions (which were very helpful) and I love reading what you say! Prides me and motivates me to move on. I should mention that this story will go on into the fourth book, so this year may seem a tad rushed. Very sorry! It's a weakness that I try to smash away, but it flickers back to life... _**


	6. Phoenix Call

Hermione sat in the library, having turned back enough time to stay for at least an hour. She peered through the books, eventually ending up in the forbidden section. She refused to enter, but something caused her to look back. It wasn't locked in chains or hidden from view. Its shining green exterior lured Hermione over. She looked around, and when she did not see a teacher, she grabbed it. It was a heavy book and rather musty. It had been laying on the very outermost edge by the eerie section and she doubted whether it was deadly at all. It hadn't bitten off her head yet, nor had it cursed her. She sat down on a table and flitted through its pages. Each was crust and heavy to her fingertips.

What was odd was that it lacked a title. The front cover was green and embedded with gold. Either the title had fallen off or there was none to begin with. The pages had small and curvy text. Very delicate were the words that Hermione held the nonsensical belief that if she breathed too hard the words would flutter off the very page. It was a history book, she came to realize, it talked about ancient Celtics and even more ancient cultures.

She stopped when she read the word "Arthur". Indeed, the man was old, but not possibly that old. It had a small star * on the tip of the 'r' and the bottom of the page lead her to the index. There, she was lead to another portion of the book, somewhere in the end and read;

_"Arthur Kirkland is the name bestowed upon England after he tackled the Armada. The queen and king placed this name, an old one, onto him in fear that a mortal would ask him his name. Arthur Kirkland (10BC -), also known as England or the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland…"_

Hermione stared in sheer shock; the picture at the bottom (hand-drawn) depicted the very Arthur she knew. There was no possible way this was a mere coincidence. She searched around the book again, going back to her innovative plan. Her time was running short when she found it.

_"Moonlit Spell – alternately the Moon Song or Lion's Roar… _

_"A spell older than even 'lumonos' was first uttered during a crescent moon during 14 BC and had been taught rarely afterwards. The last time it had been taught was in 9BC, as a gift from Robin, Daughter of Alice—who had been taught by her mother (Alice)—to her younger brother. The spell has only been said three times since its birth. When near, it sounds like the singing of a highly talented choir, but at a distance it sounds like a lion's roar. Embedded are the words. It has been advised young wizards and witches to not trouble themselves with it, as it is highly powerful and resulted in two deaths in the past few hundred years. Below are other ancient spells…" _

Hermione had taken great interest now, and was looking through the spells. If she knew one of the more advanced ones, oh how easy classes will seem! "Now let's see… _Death Curse, _heavens no! _Dancing curse, _no. _Reviving the dead… _Oh?"

Now curious, Hermione read through it and found that it required a sacrifice.

"_Phoenix Call…_ That seems simple enough…" she grabbed the book and headed to Potions class. When Harry was ignored by England, she couldn't help but notice a pitying look in Arthur's eyes.

That night, in the tower, she read through the instructions.

"_The easiest of the Three Calling Spells, this summons the Phoenix (see Unicorn's Call for a unicorn and _[these words had been smudged out, along with the corresponding spell] _have your head held high and imagine the most beautiful sight you had ever seen and say the following words… _

**'**_Przychodzą do mnie, po wielkim pożarze pana! Z dziobów tak szybkiego i ogona tak śmiałego. I szukania schronienia w pierś _**.'**

Hermione found the words difficult to read, let alone pronounce, and left the spell for now.


	7. A Quick Chapter

Draco remained quite haughty over the experience in Potions class. During dinner, he would make a sad face (frown and blubbering included) and labeling it as Harry's reaction to being skipped. Harry grew red-hot with fury and sourly ignored Malfoy.

"Why do you want to learn a Phoenix spell, 'mione?" Ron asked, looking over Hermione's shoulder at that very dinner. She was working away, trying to read the peculiar spell. She stopped and looked at Ron.

"I hardly know. I imagine it may come in useful, a lady's intuition." She seemed satisfied with her answer and turned to her left, where Harry sat. Harry sat with the saddest green eyes you could imagine. He did not cry, he simply tried to ignore all the talk and eat his food in peace. "What's the matter Harry?" Hermione said softly, touching his shoulder. He looked up and laughed mournfully (a sort of huffing laugh that sounded much like a sob but inevitably a laugh). Hermione didn't say much more on the topic and understood. Harry was having such a troubled time, after learning the news of Sirius Black from the professors who sat in Honeydukes. Harry regretted coming, but yet he didn't. Then England ignoring him, Draco teasing … It was a dreadful time, but Harry trudged through it. He was fuming mad now. He stood up, wishing desperately for his broom back.

How fortunate was it, the next day McGonagall gave his broom back and his smile brightened instantly. Quidditch practice was a darling with the swift, fast broom. Oh! What a doll it was, flowing so smoothly, that dashing Firebolt. The cup was easy to take. He screamed "expect o patronum!" at the dementors (who were really just Draco and his posse). His days took such joy in those few days.

But then Scabbers ran away.

You all know the story, how Crookshanks touched the root, how they entered in, Ron's leg breaking and Sirius swiping their wands.

Sirius was fuming in anger, ready to grab that rat and Remus, who had hugged him dearly and was so relieved, told Harry and the others the story. Snape enters the scene, pointing his wand. They save Sirius and Buckbeak in their heroic manner and soon it was time to head back home.

England seemed to have vanished in this time frame.

_Indeed a short chapter this was, but I will lengthen the next few to make up for this. I just thought I would flit through this last part, since the bigger part of this story takes place during the fourth year. Again, my dearest apologies. The other chapters will not be like this_


	8. The Red Headed Man

_Good Heavens and earth, I understand the confusion of Arthur and England. This story is in third person and therefore I am addressing you not Harry or Hermione. Sorry!_

* * *

During the time in which all the trouble from the previous chapter went on, Hermione found herself thinking in such nonsensical ways. She found herself reciting poems she didn't know and wondering why some things happened the way they did. These globs of nonsense often burst. In fact, when she was in Potions class, working on a memory potion of sorts, she started the most curious conversation with Neville. The poor, fretful boy (already weighed down with the incident of passwords) was in no need of this.

"I do believe our memories work backwards," Hermione had said _'And yours doesn't seem to work at all,' she_ thought, as it would be most rude to say aloud. When Neville gave her a frightened look and when he didn't respond Hermione continued, "Why do we remember things that happened _before_? Isn't that silly! We should remember things that will happen, and memory is so curious. Why should we keep it all locked up inside? I mean, I guess it is quite useful… Oh how I'd love to be a bird or rabbit, they don't have to worry about anything! Except they have the worry of surviving winters… And they can't read! How dreadful a life without reading…" she continued to ramble on, confusing the boy further and further. The poor helpless wizard gave her a dead look and tried his hardest to work.

This conversation (or rather Hermione's rant, seeing as Neville didn't speak a word, save for the small sounds he made), went on the day after Arthur's visit. His absence, though, drew away such complete nonsense from Hermione. It took roughly three days that nonsense dripped away from Hermione. It felt like a hangover, afterwards, she could very dully recall anything from the moment England shared the queer riddles to when her common sense returned. Not exactly knowing what it was she did, she still terribly regretted it. Then, a finally intelligent thought, came to her. Was it due to Arthur's absence? _Well, ever since he left I've feeling better. Ever since he arrived I felt bad, and he is quite old and powerful… _Hermione thought. She thought no more of it, when the whole Sirius business was over, it was already time to go home.

It was in Privet Drive sometime at night. The air was warm and the crickets played their music. Harry, unable to sleep, sat by his window and stared down. He was waiting for the Weasleys to come, and could not sleep that night due to his eagerness. If you've ever been excited for something, and I'm sure you have, you know this bristling feeling. It feels a bit like suffocation.

Harry, fantasizing about all the brilliant adventures he will have with the family, saw something out of the corner of his eye. He saw a man, dressed in a lovely deep greens suit, with messy blonde hair and a brisk walk. Harry recognized the man as Arthur and slid open the window, pausing for a moment to listen to Uncle Vernon's snore. For a horrible moment it did not come and Harry froze. The time seemed to flitter by, though the clock read the same. Then it came, a scarping sound like a drill. The sharp intake of breath relieved Harry greatly and he slid the window open more. He found Arthur look around and vanish suddenly, with a sharp cracking sound. Harry pulled back and shut the window, sliding into bed.

The event lingered in Harry's mind, even when he arrived at the Weasley's.

Meanwhile, Arthur was visiting France. He walked around Paris aimlessly for a few minutes, before spotting the blonde haired nation, wearing a fashionable scarf, violet shirt, beige trousers, and sunglasses. He looked calm, drinking coffee and watching the people pass by. The blue shapes that very thinly remained visible under the tinted glasses came to rest on Arthur. Arthur walked over and pulled up a chair. France, surprised, took off his glasses and studied Arthur's appearance. "You look dreadful, England," the French man commented, finishing his coffee and calling a waitress over, "would you like something?"

England adjusted his tie, which was muddy and falling off. The rest of his body was in no better shape. His hair was even more a mess than normal, his eyes had bags under them, and in short he looked like Remus. "That's not a way to greet someone… A 'how d'you do' would have been fair, No, I don't want anything. Can we please go to your place?" England pleaded hastily, looking at France and avoiding any form of contact with the waitress or anyone besides France, for that matter. France shrugged, paid the waitress and stood up.

"Alright, it's only a minute walk," France replied, still not quite sure what to make of England's haggard appearance. They walked in silence, England head hanging down as if he were asleep. When he stumbled nearly off the sidewalk, France grabbed his arm and realized this was no laughing matter. He shook England gently awake. England, voice groggy, mumbled some nonsense and his head slumped back down. "This is far worse than I thought, though he seemed awake enough only a moment ago…" France said to no one in particular. The rest of the short walk was spent with England leaning uncomfortably on France's shoulder and the poor man dragging him about. He reached his home and gently tossed England onto the couch. England was sleeping deeply, his eyes fluttering side to side beneath his lids. He spoke some soft words, of which consisted of "phoenix","mistake","can't give up," and "death". France picked up those words, as most of the other language consisted of utter nonsense ("twiddleyfink", "Gryffindor", and "twaddle" would be some) and some Gaelic. France tried his best to dismiss it and cooked up something light for England to eat. By the dusty looks of it, the man had about as much food as sleep in the past few days.

It took roughly a minute for England to wake up. He did so in the most frightful manor. His feet shot up straight forward, pushing the rest of him forward and his wide eyes scanned the surroundings. He gasped and groped at his surroundings, as if looking for something he'd missed place and was trapped in the dark. France watched, feeling queer in such a state of mind. Why, he had just been having coffee and was ready to go for a walk when England's troubled face showed up. He wasn't complaining, of course, but worried. The Triwizard Tournament was coming up, and he vaguely wondered if that was causing such a disruption.

England stopped moving and breathing. After some moments, which dragged on, he let out a quivering breath and seemed to gegain his posture. "Dearest me," he turned to France who was holding a plate and cup of tea. "I'm awfully sorry for that. Why, that was most rude…." France handed him the small meal and smiled gently.

"Eat up, and then explain things," he said, twice as kindly as his smile.

England looked grateful, thanked France, and indulged himself in the food. He ate eagerly. When done, he sipped the tea and looked at France who remained with that same pitiful expression."Still, I'm very sorry for all the trouble that caused you," he said.

France laughed, much to England's surprise. "That's new, you apologizing to me!"

England laughed as well, a coughing and dry sound. It had some form of happiness buried in there, but it was enclosed in a gloomy bitterness. "Yes… It's quite a long tale, how I got this way. But first things first, are you going with Beauxbatons the upcoming school year?" he asked.

"I considered it, let's leave it at that," France said, and then added quickly, "you do realize how dangerous it is?"

"It's only been ten years, surely that's hardly enough time to adjust!"

"Ten years is more than enough, and you know it. I know you love the wizarding world, Angalterre," France leaned over and touched England's hands. England gave the warm hands a sour look, as if they were the ones talking to him. He pulled himself away and stared at the window. It was a grey day in Paris, ready to rain, but still adequately warm. When he didn't respond, France continued, "But you simply cannot! You know what trouble it causes humans, even magical ones, if we are around them. Especially children, they have an especially difficult time. Anyway, don't go… Unless… You've already been?"

England tartly nodded, looking at France expecting a look of horror. He did not see it, instead France looked gentle. He always did when a nation was hurt; he was a loving man after all."Well, yes,"

"Did you talk to them?"

"I avoided…"

"How many?"

"Just one, the one I tried my hardest to avoid. Anyhow, the one I recited 'Against Mischief and Idleness' to was incredibly intelligent. At any rate—"

"You know those are the kinds of people who are hurt the most!" France was not, though, kind to those he hurt. His look of sympathy turned to white anger.

"She's fine already! She was only a little affected,"

"Well, as long as it was only _one_ poem…"

"I also told her 'You Are Old, Father William', she's fine now!"

France's mouth twisted into a terribly enraged face that caused even the stubborn England to shy away. "YOU DID WHAT?" he cried, standing up with his hands spread. "Fine, I guess talking to one is alright, and all, but telling her those two! Why, by the nerve, you know what that mix makes!"

"Very right I do,"

"You…" France spat the word and paced in front of England, who remained sitting. "What are you planning to do?"

"No harm done! I don't wish to hurt anyone, she already found the spell I wanted her to find, at any rate," England protested, finishing his tea and crossing his legs, lacing his fingers and placing the latter on top of his knee. He closed his eyes as if with defiance.

"No harm! How is pouting nonsense going to help her?"

"At any rate," England began again, opening his eyes to regard France, "it's gone now. My plans will be evident soon,"

"This isn't a plan to get your darling blade back!" France said and waited for England to reply, but the man was lost in thought. He expected at least an "at any rate". When one did not come, France grew even more outraged. "Is that your plan? IS IT? Why send an innocent girl down there to fetch your fuc—"

"What?" England looked surprised, and touched his breast, looking playful, much like a child kissing up to a teacher or parent. "I would never do that!"

France was maddened into silence. He crossed his arms and took several deep breaths. "Alright, explain the state of your clothing, then,"

"Oh, you see, I got lost," England's face lost its playfulness and he touched his nose. "I noticed the mistake I made, Hermione was not the girl to perform that on, and I disappeared. As my presence would only deepen the magic. As I said, she is _fine _now. Not a worry, for several days, yes, she remained in that dazzled state, but she's alright now! I say her just now,"

France made a disgusted grunt, "Isn't that a tad bit creepy, spying on her like that?"

"Perhaps," England replied, "_at any rate_, it was not my plan at all to do such a thing. I planned to go down and get the blade myself. Something frightful took me over, I say it was greed, and I tried it out. I regret it now, as everyone I spoke to for over a minute changed quite abruptly. That's why I avoided Harry, any more speech and he would then be corrupted." France, of course, had not the slightest idea as to what England was rambling about with Hermione this and Harry that. Yet, the man could care less.

They did not speak and the only sounds were those of the children outside and the clock ticking. France was thinking something over and England, in his own way, was feeling terribly guilty.

"I will go," France said suddenly, "I'll go to the Triwizard Tournament."

England smiled, "thank you," he meant it, too.

* * *

Now, you are possible most animated to hear of what went on with the Weasleys. I would be most happy to enlighten you.

Harry woke to a sound of an angry Scotsman shrieking his head off. His accent was very heavy, in his cries, which seemed to have erupted from a particularly heavy object falling on his foot. "OF ALL THE BLUBBERING HEAVING BLOODY THINGS—"he called and on closer inspection, Harry found the man not too far from the Weasleys. He was looking at the lopsided house with furrowed eyebrows and a face that looked oddly familiar to Harry. Though it was really such a far distance Harry could have been mistaken. Harry now knew the man had stubbed his toe on a rock trying to pass the house. He mused to himself, what was a muggle doing her of all places?

Harry soon wondered if this man was not a muggle at all. To his surprise and Ron's (who was looking over his shoulder) the man charged forward, like a raging goat, and smacked straight into the barrier again. "WHY YOU BLASTED!" he yelled and made a fist to smack it. Harry and Ron ran down the stairs, and found Mr. Weasley already out the door.

"Quinn! Why I'll be the Queen if it weren't you!" he called and the man, apparently named Quinn, stopped raging and smiled. It was a flickering sort of smile, as if he didn't like doing it.

"Aye, it's me," he said and waited as Mr. Weasley let him in. When he was inside the house, he pulled a cigar and lit it. He smiled at Mrs. Weasley and tipped his hat, "and it's very nice to see you. I can't stay very long now," he yawned and took a drag of his cigar. "I am rather famished, though," he spotted the kitchen.

Hermione, who was standing by Ginny on the stair case, shook her head. "What a rude man…" Ginny laughed in response.

"It's just his way of going about things," she told Hermione, looking at the man dreamily, "he sure is handsome, isn't he?"

Hermione studied him for a while, the sleek red hair, the single piercing, the cigar, the sharp eyes, and the suit. She shrugged, blushing slightly, "I suppose."

Mrs. Weasley whipped up some potatoes and poured him soup, "here you go dear," she said kindly, not commenting the least about his rudeness, as some woman do. Mr. Weasley turned to the four lingering children and urged them to go back upstairs. Hermione and Ginny sighed wistfully.

Ginny begged, "oh, please let us stay!"

Quinn looked at her and put out the cigar, starting in on his meal. Mrs. Weasley gave her a wink and told her, "go on now! You have a big day to-morrow, lest you forget," she shooed them upstairs.

She turned to Quinn and sat down at the table besides Mr. Weasely. Ron and Harry started to go back to their room, when Harry spotted Fred. Fred was waving his hand and calling them over. They had a string that went through the floorboards and presumably into the kitchen. "Let's listen," Harry and Ron eagerly took the opportunity and sat by Fred and George.

"Whatever brings you here, Quinn?" It was Mr. Weasley's voice. There was a clatter of a fork.

"Just thought I'd drop by," Quinn said with another rustling sound. He seemed to have finished his meal and lit his cigar again. "Haven't seen you in a while, is all."

"We missed you, and still are rather grateful. It was so nice of you to send us that dress for Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said happily. At this, Fred and George looked at each other wildly.

"Why would he send Ginny a dress?" Fred whispered. George shrugged.

"I bet he's one of those weird blokes," Ron said.

George shook his head, "No. Mum trusts him,"

And as if to answer their questions, Quinn replied, "Aye, saw it while shopping and thought of sending it to you, Mrs. Weasley, but it was too small. I looked for one in your size but I couldn't find it,"

Mrs. Weasley giggled and thanked him, "but you didn't have to," Mr. Weasley added on, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

"You know I'm still grateful to your family," Quinn said, noticing that small hint. "Oh come on! Don't think I'm stealing your wife or anything. I don't want a lass, aye no, too much, I've got other business,"

Mrs. Weasely giggled again, apparently quite smitten. "Either way, we'll return the favor when we can,"

Quinn laughed, and it was a very nice sound, "don't have to miss! It's my way of returning a favor to you!" he sounded cheerful, and then there was silence. "Are your twin boys still up to no good?"

"Why… they do pull pranks—" Mr. Weasley began to say and there was a sound of a chair being scooted back. Then, the clack-click-clack of hard shoes on a wooden floor. Fred and George looked like characters in a horror film.

"YOU BLOKES THINK IT'S FUNNY TO LISTEN TO OTHER PEOPLE'S CONVERSATIONS?!" came Quinn's voice and Fred and George shrieked.

They dropped the string and hurried downstairs before Mrs. Weasley could call them. Ron and Harry looked uneasy and ran to their room.

Harry lay on the bed in silence for a while, unable to sleep.

Ron yawned. "Quite a nasty temper he's got!" and they laughed, turned out the lights and fell to sleep.

* * *

_There's that mega chapter I was telling you about! Expect to see more characters soon. Review! Review!_


	9. Quinn Spills the Secret

_I apologize for the wait. I've had some technical issues here and there, which are not yet resolved, and therefore chapter production will be much slower than before. Do accept my apology, as I have been working hard on improving my writing style. Also, again I'm sorry for another short chapter. _

One would most expect a grand wizard such as Arthur to appear at this event. Harry held this belief true and dear, waiting the moment when he spotted Arthur at the Quidditch tournament. Then, he had this flawlessly planned out; he would walk up and ask all the questions that flowed idly in Harry's mind. Such questions as: Why were you in Privet Drive last night? Why did you leave so suddenly? What did you do to Hermione? And most achingly, why did you ignore me?

Harry felt bitterly crestfallen when he did not spot Arthur Kirkland. He stared at the audience, even Ron joined in the search. Neither boy saw the man. Harry sat, pouting somewhat, until the event began. Yet, he had not lost hope. He continued to search around, but soon the game plucked away his attention. He watched it instead, so immersed was he that he did not notice Quinn sitting only an arm's length away. With the players flying hither and thither, why that red head and studded piercing faded away like background noise. His imposing green eyes tracked the players, and especially the seeker. He hoped to soak in as much technique as he could.

Ron did not notice Quinn either, he was engulfed as well. Hermione was the only one bored to bits. She spotted Quinn sitting. At first she noticed the red hair and a vague sense of familiarity set in. When he turned around, and she spotted the impish face, she recognized him. She nudged Harry, trying to grab his attention, but heaved a great sigh when he did not stir. The boys did not see Quinn, even when the game was over and everyone filed out. Hermione crossed her arms sourly and walked on stiffly, she gave a small sort of yell but a firm hand muffled her cry. Panicking, her heart racing, and her hands clawing fruitlessly at the leather-bound hands she feared she would never see her friends again.

Squirming she turned to see who had grabbed her. It was Quinn. Quinn looked stern. His queer brows were furrowed, his mouth in a tight frown, and his eyes burning into Hermione's. "Shush, lass, I'm not trying to hurt you. Please come over here, this will only take a small moment. I need to tell you something," he tugged her into a small nook Hermione had hardly noticed before. Hermione was oddly reminded of two young girls sharing fretful secrets under the bleachers at a school. Quinn had removed his hands from Hermione, who grew curious as her fear washed away.

"What do you need to tell me?" she asked, shivering as a cool breeze flew over them. The cramped area was packed secretly into the stadium; it was behind the red velvet entrance and frightfully dim. She and Quinn were fairly well hidden, and the buzzing noise that many people talking at once made would hide their voices. Quinn turned back to her when he was certain the coast was clear, as they say.

"What I'm about to tell you is going to sound really mad, but bear with me," Quinn whispered and came closer to Hermione, who nodded uncertainly. "My brother is Arthur Kirkland, the lad who went to your school. We are not wizards. Don't look at me like that—I'm telling the bloody truth here. As much as it strains me to say so, we are much, _much,_ more powerful than any wizard. We are older too, well, at least most of us. By us, I'm talking about a whole load of people like I and Arthur. You see, we are embodiments of nations. I'm Scotland, no I am not a representative of Scotland, but actually _the _Scotland. You're smart, lass, and I doubt you haven't figured it out, but Arthur really is old. Though I am a tad older than him, anyhow, he is England. More or less he is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I fade in comparison, really. That is why I can talk to you. There's a resentful taboo against Nations talking with mortals, as of late, and England really does want to stop it. That's why he told you those odd little poems. He wanted to use you,

"I'm sorry, lass, it's not that he wanted to sacrifice you or anything. He knows how smart you are, and all, but anyway, I can go into his plan. I can't dally much about this. I can give you something, though, to explain us Nations if you wish. Anyhow, he wished to fix this strange occurrence between mortal and wizard, as it was grandly affecting the presidents and queens and whatnot. I haven't much idea of the plan, except that he wanted a blade, a sword."

Hermione paused, letting it all sink in, "what blade?" she asked, "The Gryffindor blade? Is that why he came to Hogwarts?"

"He came to Hogwarts in particular to freshen up on his charms, and talk to you. And no, he does not want that sword,"

"Well… A more ancient sword then. Excalibur?"

"Not quite. Now, think, what poems did he tell you?"

"Ah… Let me see, Against Idleness and Mischief and You Are Old, Father William,"

"Good, what do they both relate to? You got it, Alice—" he stopped right then. Ron and Harry were calling for Hermione. "You'll see more of us, I promise you, now go," he shooed her.

Hermione walked towards Ron and Harry, telling them that she forgot her scarf. She felt as if she had eaten a very large and delicious meal, she was so full of information—but she wanted more.

Ron didn't quite believe Hermione, as seeing that dazed look on her face. She was deep in thought, wondering why she could talk so freely with Scotland if the nations were having such a dreadful time with humans. She concluded that it was because he wasn't full nation.

He was more or less part of the United Kingdom, and probably didn't have the full strength of a real nation. It all sounded so odd to her, but it all made sense. That was why England seemed so old, why his eyes were so deep, why he knew the teachers. Such a thing was giving her a searing headache and she tried to focus on Harry and Ron.

It was quite simple, actually.

The Death-Eater's symbol in the sky quite took her thoughts off of that problem.


	10. Ink

Hermione lay awake, watching the ceiling. She could not sleep, and not because she was leaving for Hogwarts the next day. Through all the excitement from the Death-Eaters, she had quite forgotten what Quinn told her.

Pondering the day over, as she often did when sleep was scarce, and came across that moment. She couldn't help but chuckle at the memory. It was pale in comparison to the sign blowing up in the sky. She couldn't quite recall what he had told her, and that was troublesome. She shifted in her sleep, several times. Groaning, unable to remember or sleep, and a headache awakening, she moved about. She took off her nightgown, perhaps it was too hot. No, she pulled it back on, as it was too cold. She tied her hair up, but that hurt so she put it down. She stood up and walked around her bed three times, and still nothing improved. Ginny woke up grudgingly. "What are you? Sleeping on an anthill?" the red head moaned, "have a rest, will you? I'm becoming rather fed up," she turned over without waiting for a reply and covered her head with the pillow. Hermione stood, watching Ginny's sleeping form for a quiet minute; the red hair seemed to trigger a sort of memory. Hermione smiled gaily when she recalled and lay down again, hands daintily placed on her belly. When it all came back, she couldn't help but chuckle.

_'Oh! He mistook me for a fool. This make-believe is far too foolish to be truth!' _she thought, biting her lip in a sort of eagerness. It was silly, now, that she believed him. Maybe it was his eyes and he looked serious and seemed to mean every word. Alas, she was not one to be jested. With a mine more at ease, she found her eyes closing and sleep overcoming her.

The night was a brutal one. Even Hermione, who imagined herself well at ease, dreamt of things no child would hope to see. Terrible things, they were. It is one thing to describe to you how terrible it was, but to actually tell you what happened; now that enforces the horror.

It began as any average dream would, with some strange place unbeknownst to the dreamer, yet as familiar as their own home. Here, it seemed to be a lovely garden. The grass was green, and Hermione could not feel herself, she raised a hand and found nothing. She was only watching. There were roses of an unnaturally lively red color and lilies of snow-white, tulips of rich velvet, and all these flowers arranged themselves in a sort of circle. The sky was not bright blue, but rather the color of ocean water. Clouds watched down curiously before passing. The flowers shivered in the light breeze and a sound of wind chimes accompanied them. Things remained in this nearly ideal abstraction for moments on end.

It grew darker, suddenly, clouds above head conjoined and gathered into a looming gray mass and glared down.

Movement was unnatural to Hermione, it was somehow delayed, and calm drops of water fell upon here and the sound of rushing rain replaced the breeze. The flowers grew, and abruptly too. They sprung up from the earth, growing farther and farther away until they appeared to be trees. Or, perhaps it was Hermione who grew shorter. One cannot be sure when her own feet refuse to move.

In front of her, glinting in with droplets of rain water, was a blade. It looked no larger than a butcher's knife and off the same curving shape, there was a few spots of blushing rust on the antique handle, otherwise it was in mint condition. She reached forward, and to her surprise she could see a hand stretch out. It was dressed in some form of deep-black armor that grew heavier with each new pelting rain drop, which was the size of her head. Grabbing the blade, she woke abruptly.

Sitting up, she saw Mrs. Weasley at the door. The woman smiled, "Up just in time, Hermione dear. Ginny!" she called sharply and Ginny started. She pulled herself out of bed, and Mrs. Weasley did not leave until Ginny was getting her clothing on. "Don't want to be late, now, do we?" she left and Hermione was left with a peaceful face and quaking hands. She was quit unsure about that dream, except that it reminded her of the conversation with Quinn yet again. Scarily enough, she started to believe him. Her common sense told her it was impossible, but everything was going for it.

He did say something about a few more of "them" arriving at Hogwarts. Until then, she would doubt their existence. She fumbled to grab her cloak when Ginny called her out of the daze.

Ginny had the suspicion that Hermione was not all there at the moment, and it was enforced when the girl put her socks on the wrong feet and her shirt both inside-out and backwards. "Hermione!" she called, and helped her get dressed properly. "We'll be late, I can already smell breakfast. We ought to get down before the boys eat I t all up," of course, Mrs. Weasley would never let such a thing happen, but it was a way to urge Hermione.

England was dressed in his favorite suit and awaiting the train at platform 9 ¾. He took a look at his watch before taking it off and placing it in his bag. He nearly dropped it when he looked at the foul mess inside. One of his bottles of ink had very well cracked. The inky fluid bled into his books, onto his wand, and onto his quill. He cursed and set his things down. He fished for the wretched bottle and cut himself instead. He thought he had found the bottle and pulled his bleeding finger out. He sighed and stood.

This was a poor decision. An elderly witch had spotted his cut and walked over. She pulled her wand and healed it, during which a clumsy oaf of a boy tripped off England's back and a very sharp crack lashed through the air. England stood erect and turned slowly, much like a horror film. The boy had picked himself up and ran away. The witch smiled at him and left. England, quite relieved that his finger was alright, was in a state of shock. He kneeled down and opened the bag, possibly too forcefully. The bag ripped at the mouth. Inside, the ink had caked on and England pushed his hand in once more. He pulled out his white wand and stared at it hopelessly. It was snapped in half. His oldest and most priced wand was useless. Feeling a small urge to cry, he set it down. He would ask one of the teachers to aid him in fixing it, but what if something was to go wrong on the train?

He dug through his bag, trying to find something that was not destroyed. The books were ruined, the wand was dead, the bottle was broken into minute pieces, and even the arrow was snapped.

England sat back hopelessly.

Wait… _The arrow_?

He shot back forward and picked up the arrow. His mouth was agape as he stared at the strange thing. He didn't recall putting it in there. It was as long as his forearm, the feathers at the end were soft and red (matted with ink), and the tip was made with some crystal. Had it not been for the crack along the spine and the inky stains, it would have been the most beautiful arrow England had ever seen. The crystal shone blue and purple in the light. He set it down gently into his bag and peered in, what else could there be inside?

To his surprise there was a small sack made of the finest leather. The train whistled, calling him over. He grabbed his bag and headed inside and when he was finally comfortable in the compartment he took a look at his objects again.

The leather sack held various instruments. A small bottle, filled with a sunny red liquid was first, and England didn't dare take it out. Besides that there was a small pipe, as to play music. This, he did pick up, but only after he analyzed the neighboring objects. There were some aged coins of gold and silver (not muggle nor wizard money, as far as he could fathom), a ring black as charcoal, and a blade. He rejoiced greatly when he saw the blade, it was the one he had searched for. He kept it in its leather case, though.

He picked up the flute when The Golden Trio walked in. Harry opened his mouth to speak, Hermione looked queer, and Ron was dizzy somewhat. The moment, the scary moment when England placed the darling flute to his mouth, these odd looks faded away. Hermione smiled, Harry laughed, and Ron continued telling his joke. They sat down and watched England intently, as children would watch a cartoon. England played a first note, it was not shrill as a whistle, not calm as an oboe, but miraculous. Such a sound rang through cabin, it was like a breeze through the woods.

England pulled his mouth away and looked tired suddenly. He spoke with the three children, and to his delight, the spell seemed to be broken.

Alright, England though, one problem down, some more to go.


	11. Pretend

The train whistled as it passed through dashing green trees and under a bright blue sky. The sun shone down on it, feeding its loving rays to the grass and the flowers that looked up at her with such love and compassion. Their mother, as plants call the Sun, watched the train flow by curiously. It was a lonely thing, moving about in the wilderness, as it is the only main man object to grace these woods, though it did so only once a year. Besides the train-tracks, it was travelling alone in the natural world, burdened with dozens of young witches and wizards (as well as an old one).

Inside this train sat Arthur, watching outside the window in such wonder. He had long disdained himself from the conversation had by the excited 14 year olds. Hermione was chatting up eagerly on her classes, Harry and Ron about Viktor Krum, and the likes. I would tell you this conversation, but in all honesty it was dreadfully dull. I could doze off telling it, and where would this story be without someone to tell it? Why, the story would go on discontinued while the writer slept from boredom. Arthur also found this conversation of utmost dullness.

He fingered the small pipe lazily, wanting to play it, but it had its side effects. He felt very sleepy after only the first note, but yet peaceful. He feared any more would pull him down into a sleep so deep he would miss the stop. Therefore, he settled with watching the world go by outside the windows.

England, same as all nations, is patient. Why, he could watch grass grow. Such patience only comes from old age. He eventually slipped into a daydream. With his most abrupt troubles gone, he felt at home almost. He was still broken hearted for his wand and the ink, and the arrow did trouble him so… But he could finally interact with mortals by some sheer form of luck that dropped his pipe into his bag. Why, it was not luck. It was, in fact, on reason. At this time, our dear friend England did not know why it was there. He hadn't the slightest clue as to who placed it in.

I trust you, my dear reader, recall the poor fellow who tumbled over his bag? I trust you also remember that England did not turn around at the moment. This poor lad that we speak of, did not fall on accident, he was not clumsy. It was also did not just happen that the woman was so close by. Arthur's hand was still in his bag when she rushed over, England did take note of this. He declared that it was his sharp intake of breath. He had been near enough women to know their keen sense of injury. He may be a nation, but England does not know of every little detail that goes about.

Sighing, England stretched back and turned his attention towards the children. Hermione was looking at him, with the appearance of one who was clinging onto a dream that was slipping away. Regrettably, this dream was lubricated too well, and Hermione's grip was not strong enough. Her queer look turned into one of failure. She shook her head, upset that the memory slipped away. She could just hardly recall what Quinn had told her, the dream, or even the poems Arthur had told her. What a pity, too, she really did like those poems. Funny, were they.

England looked at her, returning the look. His great ogles [eyes] shone, shimmering with little drops of water. Those droplets glistened like morning dew. Sparkling like stars, they were brushed away when England's long and black lashes soaked them up with several easy blinks. England brought a finger to his hair and brushed away any loose hair, though they only fell back. The tears were noticed by Harry. He thought it odd to see them. There was no cause for sadness. They were heading to Hogwarts after all. As most people do these days, he placed a logical label on them and dismissed it. He shrugged and turned to face Ron, who launched into a new conversation about Harry's godfather. He inquired of the letters, and Harry replied in a soft voice. Just a tad too loudly, came the words "Sirius Black" it was a simple mistake, a slip of tongue, a raise of pitch. The three children looked at Arthur, eyes wide.

Arthur said not a word for he was lost in thought again. His face was cast in the direction of some invisible object or idea. His eyes glistened again with the same beads of water. They threatened to pour. The three children's voices quieted down and they watched Arthur for a long time.

For children, even fourteen year olds, it is a bitter sight to see an adult cry. Such tears could not, would not, and should not be shed. They were not ugly, in fact they were beautiful. It was mesmerizing, to put it, to see a nation cry. They did so seldom it was a rare sight indeed. Wars happened, and only a few of those great wars sparked tears. England felt them and wiped them quickly, pulling out a book.

England does not shed tears for a reason. The last time he recalling doing so was during the Second World War, the dead, the war, the burning, it all hurt. His lip was torn and bloody, his arm was broken, and his heart was throbbing. He could cast stray looks at the dead, all laying down and kissing the ground, crying blood. Those he would never get back. The men and woman and children, all those he'd lost. Those who had a chance at life, who had love and happiness. He sat atop his pillar, built of death, thrones, tears, blood, lies, and the wars. He traced a hand down the pillar, feeling the pain. He regretted it at that moment, staring out to the war he had barely won. He was one of the last standing nations at the time, and it was not something he could celebrate. He could stand, though, and raise a glass to the air—the poisoned air filled with hatred and war. It smelt horrible but it was air, and he breathed it in. The glass he raised was make-believe. He had slipped into a pretend world and fancied himself walking around a pretend table, pouring pretend drinks, and talking with pretend people. He laughed at pretend jokes and made pretend remarks. It was all pretend at that moment. And it hurt. It stung worse than a bite in the knee or a blow to the head. He dropped the pretend glass and cried. The tears could not stop flowing.

That is not why he cried, at that moment, though. He was planning his fate.

He was going to die.


	12. The Ghost

Albus Dumbledore sat down, smiling at his students. The news of the TriWizard Tournament rang fresh in their ears. Even the age-limit had not brought down their spirits. The teachers watched the children, most with a pleasant smile except for Snape who looked disgusted. Arthur sat pleasantly besides an empty chair. He looked at it with slight amusement. When the doors swung open, and the children quieted down, Arthur understood. Walking in was a large man as wet and grumpy as a cat in a bath. He hobbled in, one eye swerving and eyeing each student and the other staring straight ahead. His jaw jutted out and his matted hair lay frazzled on his head. He pulled up the chair besides Arthur and sat down.

Arthur took a good long stare at him. You see, nations can easily see through disguises. Arthur did not speak out, but the man knew. His regular eye looked at him in bewilderment and his other eye, for once, stared at Arthur. The man looked back at the eyes, grinning playfully. O, how much fun will he have with this one. With his fingers laced up, he waited for Dumbledore to finish introducing him. When Albus sat back down and an uneasy silence fell, Arthur picked up his wine glass, and paused. He felt eyes on him. Uneasy and watchful eyes that distrusted him. He set the goblet down and scanned around, trying to find who it was that gave him such a queer look. First, he turned to Mad-Eye, but the man was not looking at him. The stare was raising the hair on his neck, therefore it was not Mad-Eye that simply turned away. He looked at Snape and the other teachers, nope not them. Arthur knew very well who was looking at him, but he was playing. Everything was a game from now on. To toy on, he picked up his glass and drank from it. "Poisoned," he said suddenly. The teachers turned toward him, and the eyes shifted away. Arthur smacked his lips and looked thoughtful. "Cyanide too! Someone is ambitious, I say. Highly toxic, if you chose the right one and alas, you have not! You've chosen the one of lower toxicity. Even if it was the real one, well, then it still wouldn't have done its job. Am I right?" He turned and faced one of the ghosts. The ghost was of a young woman who screamed and vanished. Arthur sighed and set his wine down, shaking his head. "Did you not believe I was real?" he said softly, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Harry and his friends watched the whole problem. When the ghost vanished everyone went back to their conversations. "He's blooming mad!" Ron exclaimed. The twins looked over.

"Have you seen that ghost before?" Fred asked.

"Come to think… There was this question mark floating about the map, among other things," George replied.

Harry looked at him, a brow raised. "A question mark? I think I've seen that. Is it an unmarked ghost?"

"No, it is no one," Fred said, he looked at something in the distance.

"What?" Ron asked, joining the conversation. "It must be someone's ghost,"

"It is no one, they don't exist," George said, looking in the same direction as Fred. They were not all there. It was as if something strange had overtaken their minds. Ron nudged Fred's arm but he said nothing.

"She might have existed once, maybe in another world," Fred continued. George began to say something but they both gasped and shook their heads. Taking deep breaths, as if they had come out of water, they looked at each other and laughed. They continued on with their conversation as if nothing had happened. Hermione looked at them, with the same shaken expression as Harry.

Days passed and before they knew it, the other schools had arrived. First came the Bulgarian school, along with Viktor Krum and none other than Bulgaria himself.

Bulgaria walked briskly in front with the headmaster, brown hair sleeked down his face and a grim expression. The boys behind them stomped on, introducing themselves gallantly.

Afterwards came the French Witch School. The headmistress walked with France smiling next to her. The girls walked on gracefully. They were more airy and light footed than the Bulgarian school. France wore a lovely French costume with shining frills and gems glittering on his suit. The pudgy woman walked along with him, as they talked in French. _"D'accord, madam! __Oui… Oui, il est Dumbledore…" _France was saying and Hagrid was on the opposite side of the woman, watching her happily and quite smitten.

The trotted in, introduced by the headmaster. England meanwhile, was anticipating their arrival. He did not, actually, expect the nations to come along. It was unfortunate that he was drinking when Bulgaria walked right in. The water sprayed out into a serviette he had kept in his pocket. He stared at them. Though France had told him before he was coming, he never actually believed him. France was terribly angry, and anger causes one to say odd things. Therefore, he might have decided against coming. England was so sure of his reasoning that it surprised him to see France walking up, and so glittery as well.

As we know, the Goblet of Fire chose Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and Harry on that faithful night.


	13. Dreary

_Hullo, review please and tell me what you think! _

England stood in a grassy field, allowing the cool breeze to drift over him and brush his hair. He held a lily in his hands, gentle white petals softly grazed his finger tips. He hadn't the heart to tear or destroy a single petal. A single creature living on it. He brought it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on one of the petals and smiling. He crouched down and looked at the engraved words. _'Here lies…' _and some name of a woman he once knew. He never spoke to her, she had been dead for a good fifty years. He placed the lily gently on the grave. He stood and shifted the bouquet in his arms and moved on. The next grave was of a man, who died too young. Here, he placed a daisy, as lively as he was. Next was a little girl, a rose. A woman, a tulip for her.

"What are you doing here?" a trembling, elder voice spoke from behind. Arthur stood, a bitter smile lying on his lips. His eyes glowed as dim as a dying sun.

"Just a final good-bye," he mumbled, and turned around. Professor McGonagall stood there, watching him with worried cat-like eyes.

"Good-bye? Where are you going?" she asked, stepping closer.

"Away, maybe for a few minutes, maybe for a thousand years," he replied and handed her the remaining flower; a tiger lily.

"Thank you," she took it and examined the pretty flower in her hands, "why? What's going to happen to you?"

Arthur smiled at her, "don't worry about me, ma'am. I will be back, I just haven't done this in so long…" he added in a tone of dread. "I'm afraid,"

McGonagall shook her head, watching him leave the graveyard. "I understand you are afraid," she called after him, still unsure of his plans, as I assume you dear reader are.

"All in good time, lass, I still have a few weeks," Arthur said back, waving his hand. "Don't worry, please don't, I'm not going to," he laughed, a song like golden bells.

School continued on, and the first challenge came about. Arthur watched from the crowds, never cheering, only smiling and nodding respectfully towards the winners. France spotted him and sat closer. "Bonjour, you aren't enjoying yourself it appears," he said.

"What? Oh no! I'm just…" England fumbled over his words, trying to formulate a believable lie.

"Ah, do you ever smile? You're just as dreary as your weather!" France exasperated, placing his hands on his lap.

_Short, super duper short chapter. I beg your pardon! No time, no time…_


	14. Farwell Old Friend - End

_Death is near. Death is inevitable. _The words of the fortune teller rung in his head. Not being one to shoot down ideas, he believed them. The fortune teller had gone into that rigid state when she said it, henceforth it must be true. He believed his death was close by, and possibly that night. He was awoken from his thoughts by a gentle voice.

"Care to dance?" France asked carefully, holding out a hand to England, who sat idly. It was the Yule Ball, dancing pairs pranced about the floor, clicking heels, swooshing dresses, polite laughs and polite remarks resounded through the hall. England looked at the hand, unsure of the gesture. "Really I," France pulled his hand away and turned around shyly. "You've been terribly glum these days. I thought I'd give you a break," he sat down and England daren't say a word. "At least tell me what's got you so down?" England looked up suddenly.

"Shush," England stood suddenly. All the other folk were having far too much fun to take care.

"What are you—"

"I said, shut your bloody mouth!" England hissed, staring at the wall. His brows furrowed the way they do when he's either mad or upset. France felt worried, his mouth set in a frown. It did not fade when England sat down, seemingly regaining himself. "I'm sorry, I thought I spotted something," he laughed blankly. A simple _ha, ha, ha. _

France bit his lip and turned away. He heard something strange, like children whispering and giggling. France turned behind him, only seeing Harry and Ron chatting quietly. "Are there any small children here?" he asked Harry, having roamed over without excusing himself.

Harry started, looking up at France. "No, youngest are 11, if that's what you mean by small,"

The voices erupted, sounding like multiple children at once screaming in agony. France winced and looked around. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Ron asked curiously, as if genuinely interested.

"Hearing voices isn't normal, not even for wizards," Harry recited the long lost words. Words that had lived a short while, ages ago, and died with hardly a whimper.

France shushed them with a wave of his hand. The voices died back down, dimming into scared whispers and giggles. "It sounds like children being tortured!" France exclaimed, slamming his hands on his ears when the screams came back. They were louder this time, tearing into the air. Multiple screams resonated through the air, multiple children screaming in harmony.

Hermione, who was busily crying on the stairway looked up. She heard the yells. Standing and gathering her dress, she hurried back to Harry and Ron, who were watching France in simple amusement. "Did you hear that?" she hissed, quivering.

"Bloody hell, why are your eyes so red?" Ron muttered, taking no notice of what she had said.

"The screams! They were clear as the nose on your face, we need to do something!" she stressed, wincing in anger.

"Go back to your crying, 'Mione," Harry added in rudely.

France turned and looked at Hermione, who had her face in a tart contraction, obviously fuming with boiling rage. "You heard?" he asked.

Hermione looked at him, smiling in relief. "See, I'm n-not mad!" she sobbed, covering her face. Ron and Harry had the same distant look Fred and George had, their eyes… Something was different there. Their eyes were blank, a blue color and paper white skin. Hermione looked around, the other students were the same. Dull eyes, unsmiling faces, even the music had come to a halt. The dancers stopped dancing and everyone looked on blankly. The couples stopped moving, every person but three stood as if they were made of stone. England, France, and Hermione were the last living things, so to speak. Hermione walked closely to Ron and touched his cheek. His eyes shifted to look at her, and for a flickering second there was a glimmer of plea, a call of help. She knelt down, "oh Ron… Ron…" she pleaded him to return. Ron's body shivered and his head knelt down, tumbling to the floor along with everyone else. Their bodies fell coldly to the floor with a dull thump. The teachers, who were merrily laughing only a moment ago were staring coldly ahead, their eyes dead. Hermione took a deep breath. She touched Ron's neck. No pulse. "He's dead!" she cried, stumbling back into the arms of the two men. France looked at England, wanting an answer.

"They're not dead, my dear," he touched Hermione's head gently and turned her face towards him. He peered into her eyes, studying her frantic features. "Good… Jolly good!" he smiled and hugged her close. "Remember those poems I told you? Remember what Quinn told you? I'm Britain, that's France, Bulgaria is drunk somewhere… But you have to believe me. We are the nations. That—" he gestured to the witches and wizards around, "—didn't happen to us because we are nations. It didn't affect you because I preformed a spell on you. Now, tell me, have you memorized the Phoenix Call?"

She nodded, "I haven't tried it yet," she didn't even fathom not believing him, she was far too distressed over Ron and Harry.

"Perfect!" England nodded, and pulled out his wand. It seemed to melt, dripping low to the floor. Like a candle's wax, the white material lengthened but lost no matter. With dim little vibrating shimmers, it became a gallant white staff.

Holding it in hand, he began to run, beckoning Hermione and France to follow. "What's with the staff? Isn't a wand just as good?" France asked.

"The wand was only a compact staff, the staff has oodles more power than a wand. I don't use this often, I would look silly!"England replied and turned a right. Hermione and France exchanged a look and followed.

"Why are we running?" Hermione asked, kicking off her shoes. "What's going on? What were those screams? What is going on?!"

"Girls, you always ask so many questions," England sighed, "We haven't the time, please keep running," and so they ran in silence. Unexpectedly, England stopped and faced a wall. He tapped it with the staff and the walls slid open. "Brilliant, really… Brilliant architects, wish I'd met them. Oh, wait, I did," he chuckled and stepped in. Inside was a long passageway, unused for many a year, and a musty smell loomed inside. Cobwebs hung like Christmas decorations. England pulled off his shoes. "Do the same, these walls echo," France complied, Hermione looked in as she had already taken off her shoes. Such uncomfortable high-heels, she had thought, I ought to make enchanted ones that turn to more comfortable penny-loafers for running.

Besides the smell of mold and grime, underlying was a smell of iron—particularly blood. Scrunching her nose at the rank smell, the witch drew back finding her wand which she had hidden in the folds of her dress. "Where does this lead to?" she asked, holding out her wand. England placed a hand on her wand, stopping her from using 'lumonous'.

"You'll soon find out. No light, the walls will lead us where we need. They were made for _them _after all. Now, when I give the call, repeat the spell," England instructed and turned to France who felt somewhat left out and jealous. A childish jealousy really, _why was he giving more attention to her? _France, with his arms crossed, stared evenly at England. "Don't look at me like that, I need your help too. Here," he held out a small, leather bag. France took it and inside was the bottle, the blade, and the arrow. "Take the blade, it hates me," he looked at it, as if to ask what the hate was for. France grabbed it, and in some manner the blade hissed at England, as if making a raspberry. "Oh don't you do that, rude blade," England scolded and brought a finger to his lips. "No sound, no light," he entered the hall, the other following closely behind.

France held the blade tightly, it shook furiously, trying to squirm from his grasp. He then shoved it in the bag and held that bag close to his chest. Wich, was a rotten idea. The whispering sounds, which never really had stopped, continued on tiredly. The voices sounded weary and trembling. As if they had no choice but to talk.

They entered a low-hanging room, the ceiling quite literally scrunched them up, their bodies lurched forward and hobbled.

"Who goes there? I smells bloods! Nice, juicy bloods!" a smothered voice said. The speaker seemed to spit rather than talk properly. A hacking sound followed the words, like some mucous had built up in the throat and was climbing its way out only to be swallowed again. "Bloods! Three! I smells three! Delicious, yummy, bloods. Mm! I's having a big feasts today!" it called again, another fit of violent hacking followed by something plopping onto the floor with a disgruntling plop.

England turned towards the other two, holding up a finger to his lips. He could hardly see them, only a thin blue light that glowed like a dying ember aided them. Even then, it hardly sufficed. They moved onto a path that was slim and lead off in two different directions. England grabbed the hand that was behind him and led to the left. They walked around in a curved path, twice Hermione nearly slipped, thrice did France (who had to do with a fussing blade, mind you), and odd enough, England stumbled not once, who seemed to know this place inside-out.

Hermione's dress was torn, but her mind was where greater matters lie. Her friends were dead, which she believed despite England's words otherwise, and she had no way to bring them back. Least she could do was to avenge them. With her eyes set forward and her features grim she followed, stumbling no more. England felt this tense change behind him and turned backwards, leaning closely he told her in a whisper to faint she barely could grab the words, let alone hold onto them, "relax. She smells emotion". Words in mind, she tried to do so. She thought of being in a great library, with a distant smell of freshly mowed grass and old books wafting through the air, and her nose in a book. Her shoulders slumped and the blue light flickered.

France kept close behind, growing heavier and wearier with each step. The great weight in his arms fumbled and the blade had pierced the leather and was steaming hot. Even through this entire struggle, it made not a sound. Feeling faint, as if the moving wasn't the only thing tiring him, he worried he would slip and fall. His vision blurred and Hermione's pink dress was hardly there. He gripped onto what he could and dropped to his knees, the bag still to his chest. He coughed and sputtered, thick drops of blood splattered out. He had grabbed a loose piece of fabric, already torn from Hermione's dress. He looked up, but his senses were failing. Reaching down to grab the bag, he found something soaking wet instead. He pulled up his hand, which shook violently, and tried to figure out the strange, hot material that dripped down his fingers. It was blood. He shivered and reached down again, unsure. The world was spinning around him and his eyes threatened to shut and remain shut. His fingers were already numb, and the strange material that had lodged itself into his chest felt like nothing. France could tell some sort of object was hidden behind the mist, then it became clear.

The blade had pierced itself into his heart.

Thoughts fluttered around in his head. He wondered if England had planned to kill him. No, England believed he would die, did he not? Either way, he could have lied. He skidded off the edge and fell down deep. He landed on something soft with a polite thump. Hardly able to even think, he muttered with his last breath, _"This is how the world ends, with a whimper, and not a bang…" _he closed his eyes and his breathing grew fainter and fainter until it was gone all together.

"Mm, fresh bloods! Killed already, saves work for poor Arrksha!" The voice howled in delight and a scuttling sound headed in the opposite direction. England turned to Hermione, grinning in triumph. He ran forward, skidding down a slope and looking about. The source of the blue light appeared to be a grand globe, shimmering like the moon and just as proud. Hermione peered in, and saw something distantly glimmer. A face it was. A face that looked an awful lot like Harry's, crying _help! Help! _

"They're in here!" she said in a barely contained whisper, looking at England who tapped his staff on the walls. England had been pondering what caused the Arrksha to run away. Perhaps Hermione's dress led it away.

"Oh, grand, I know. Where's that blade, France?" he called and looked around. His glorified face dimmed and was replaced by panic. "France?!" he cried out and ran around; trying to find what had been lost. "France! This isn't funny, you know, not in the least bit… France…!" he mumbled and threw his staff on the ground, "Hermione, break the globe with my staff, and do it quickly!" he ordered and ran in the direction the Arrksha went.

He found some giant form, that strongly resembled a spider, hawk, and woman stood in front of him, standing over some limp figure. It hissed at England, "Ah! Hello, dear Arrksha, what a pleasure!" he said hoarsely. The figure leaned down, it's eight legs, which were jet-black and furry crouched, showing a feathered body and upper torso of a woman. The woman was strangely familiar. It was the ghost he had seen, England recognized. The feathers, grimy in some unfamiliar substance gleamed with white light, as the black and red eyes winced. The white light had come shortly after a shattering sound. Hermione had broken the globe, with fury by the looks of it. Screams sounded and blue figures flew overhead and out of the hallway. Hermione ran back, throwing the staff into England's outstretched hand. "Stay back," he said, "and when I say so, do the spell," he turned back to Arrksha. "What happened to you! Blimey you got a make-over, and not the best, if I might say,"

"It insults us!" it cried, three voices in one. Another hacking sound. The voices were that of a large man (the bird), a dying raspy sound (the spider) and the woman. And another hacking sound. "But it wishes to knows, doesn't it?"

England nodded, stepping back. Sadly, the Arrksha did not move forward, as he had hoped. "Yes, I wish to know. Tell me, all three of you, what happened?" he demanded, stepping back again. The creature only swayed on its legs.

"Masters wished for you blood!" it hissed and jumped forward.

"_Przychodzą do mnie, po wielkim pożarze pana! Z dziobów tak szybkiego i ogona tak śmiałego. I szukania schronienia w pierś_ !" Hermione screamed, and a bright light filled the room. The creature was attacked by none other than Fawkes. The lightest touch and it burst into flames, England gave Hermione a mean look and ran around, coming to a halt in front of the figure.

The creature ignited and burned, turning to a pile of ash. "What was that look for?!" Hermione asked, when the room grew silent again.

"I DIDN'T SAY TO DO THAT! I WAS GETTING INFORMATION!" England shrieked, ready to tear out his hair.

"SHE WAS ABOUT TO KILL YOU!" Hermione responded just as madly.

England stopped and quivered with anger, "GO! Just… Just go! Go see to Harry and the others, see if they're okay," he turned and knelt by the figure. Hermione recognized France's face and understood. She turned and ran back to the hall.

England leaned over the body and shuddered, starting to sob. "It wasn't me who was going to die…" he whispered and pulled the damned blade out of France's chest. He stared at it long and hard, before slamming it on a rock, snapping the blade in two.

France's pale, lifeless face, with eyes closed lay bloody and motionless on the stone, cold floor. "What a bitter place to d-die… No, he can't die," England fought with himself and went back to France, he undid the jacket and tie. He felt at the wound and drew closer, his quivering lips touched France's temple. Cold as ice. His hand touched the chest, where dried blood curdled up. No pulse or breath. Shivering and cursing, England's tears fell to France's cheeks, falling limply down the sides and in a ceremony of complete nothingness, waved good-bye to England. Leaving him forever. Those tears he would never see again, or feel. He would never see France laugh again, or flirt, he would never feel his warm and soft hands.

"Dammit, why didn't I take that dance… My best friend…" he said barely above a whisper and lay down besides France, holding the hand so tight in hopes of returning warmth and life. He looked at France, and fancied himself speaking again. "Re-remember how we went to America? How we went to India? How we colonized the world? How our monarchs ruled? Remember all that?" he brushed away the long, curly hair from France's face. England held it in his hands for a moment, the soft, silky thing lay calmly in his grasp, the last bit of life. He dropped it, unable to see clearly from the tears swelling in his eyes like massive balloons. For minutes on end, he remained there, in the dark with only the dim luminous charm hanging out from his staff. When he felt himself droop into a sleep, he sat up and wiped his eyes. "well, good-bye old chap. I… I…" he kissed France's forehead and stood up, and bid his farewell.

"I'm sorry, I'll do what I can. Which isn't much, I'm just an old man who looks too young,"

* * *

******How did you all like my story? Review and tell me what you think! This is my intended end, and yes I know there are many unanswered questions. I guess I will leave it to you to decided upon those answers. Perhaps someday in the future I'll answer those questions. Perhaps. So do you like my stories? Would you read more? Tell me! Tell me your thoughts! **


	15. Answers - bonus chapter

Isn't reading simply marvelously dangerous? Dangerous, I say, because of what it can do. Skies above, it could drive you to blooming insanity! Now this story, a simple fanfiction floating about in the depths of this lovely website, with some 50 reviews, and bundles of favourites, makes not the smallest, bloodiest amounts of sense.

This story was not meant to have a clear plot in the first place. That's all, expect not a shining explanation of such a story. Originally it was just a test of the writer's queer invention. A test of her writing style, her ability to describe pain and magic, though she had quite failed this test, she had made a deeper story than intended.

Yet, this writer has failed to explain her intentions whatsoever. She even dared pass it off as a simple, 'Well, um, yes… Quite, you must decide the end!' with a polite laugh to cover for her own confusion. Honest is, someone has quite guessed.

This story is to have an Alice's Adventures in Wonderland feel to it. Given that I used two poems mentioned in the actual book, the Valpor Blade from The Looking Glass, and even used the same reasoning. If you can call that reasoning.

Though I cannot explain fully the story, not yet at any rate, I can explain various questions. Alright, alright, I admit it. I was leaving clues hoping you would figure it out. Then, again, I didn't really do so clearly. My apologies.

**What was that creature at the end? What did it want? **

It wanted nothing. It was a guardian over that globe in which Hermione broke. It came as a ghost form, seeking help as it is quite literally a chimera creation of three different creatures due to some frightful spell. Who is she? An eagle is a symbol of freedom, a spider of building (weaving webs) and a woman a mother. Basically it was a sort of symbol for England. England freed slavery long, long before America did, England built up many great writers among other things, and the nation also was "mother" to English. England is afraid of himself, you see, because I did tell you he was hungry for something. Knowledge! Where better to get knowledge than from other people?

**France is dead? **

Yes and no. Nations can't die, we know that. He's lost form for quite a while. He'll be fine, in case you were wondering.

**That prophecy, what in blazes was that?**

Prophecy England had heard from some seer. He knew of the Arrksha's presence, he assumed it will kill him and not France. If he dies, a painful process, he will not be allowed back to the Wizard world for years. Therefore he will miss it again. You know England well enough, I trust.

**What happened to Hermione?**

What a grand question I hope no one has. I explained it quite clearly in the last chapter.

**What was the point of this story? **

Why? Does it need a point to be printed clearly for you to read? Find it on your own. I can tell you what I think, bloody hell if that means anything to you. A story is what you make of it. I build the door, you choose to open it.

**Are there any new stories coming any time soon? **

Of course! I'm planning a sort of western-like story with America and Japan, if anyone is interested. A murder mystery is also on my radar, as well as a Science Fiction sounds delightful in my ears. Now, a survival story is something… Ah yes, how I would love to write that.

**Any _other _questions you had? Don't ask something if you can figure it out, please.**


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